A Sunday Morning Reflection

I continue to receive mail from concerned listeners ... I cannot for obvious reasons say whether the notes reflect a common sense of "Seniors" ... that we all suffer from what once was called involutional depression (melancholia) or that the comments are more closely in response to what folk imagine they perceive in me. In general, they are well-wishing ... "Hope you feel better" ... "Sorry to hear that ...." .... "OMG, that's terrible."

I discussed this a few hours ago as I was thinking of coming downstairs with GuntherDog. He did his usual "sit-down" on the landing just on the top of the stairs ... "Pet me or I go nowhere." For some reason, this morning was to be different. I sat down, too.

H: "GuntherDog ... This has been going on a long time, now. Niine years that you refuse to come down the stairs to pee until I've admitted my fealty and debt to you by slavishly petting you."

GD: (Quizzical look ... followed by a turn of the head)

H: I have feelings, too.

GD: (? Whaddya-say? I couldn't hear you.)

H: Nevermind. Just, never-you-mind. Look. (why do people so often invoke the sense of vision ... whatever) Nobody has it easy. You're pushing ten and I'm on Medicare ... that is, we're close in age. Two Old Guys trying to make it through ... Don't ask me, you smart-ass dog ... Don't ask me "through what" cause I frankly don't know.

GD: (? Can I pee, now?)

H: Well. I'm not petting you, this morning. I have a sneaky suspicion that dogs think their prostates are between their ears and demand this bizarre stimulation. Well, no more. You scratch your own head. Wanna pee? Lift your hind leg and do your scratching thing. I resign. Oh! It's not all you, Gunther. Part of it is having this role of pater familias for so many years ... Married for 48 ... 3 kids ... let's see. If I add their ages, I get 130 years of Fathering. Throw in the inlaw kids, an ex inlaw kid, and six grandchildren and I think I get something just shy of 300. Nevermind the 40 years of being in a service industry and worrying about the needs of students and the visitors who consult with me.

GD: (? I really gotta go. Can I pee, yet?)

H: No. I need to finish. Lookie here.

GD: (There he goes, again, with making fun of my failing eyesight)

H: Before you, there were three Saint Bernards, Kaz Kuratowski, Schreber and Mitzvah), and then there was the real lady dog ... I mean she was a lady and among the finest that walked on God's Earth, Shayna Rosa the Wonda Dog.

GD: (Stop, already)

H: Not till I'm done or you get off your ass and walk down the stairs on your own steam, Schmuck! There were cats, as well: Hans who turned out to be a Hannah, Muncacz who showed up at the back door hungry, Matyos actually from Hungary via Vienna brought by one of your older brothers, Winnie-cat and Emily who both belonged to your Sister, who you know, as well, and Pretty Girl Freud who was found in Richmond by your other older brother. Geez. I've been taking care of these, I figure, for more years (counted cumulatively) than that kidnapper in Cleveland got years for being apparently a real monster ... he got life + 1,000 years.

GD: (Enough. It's no wonder people think you complain too much. Nobody signed you up ... you weren't conscripted into this life)

H: Well, either were you. You didn't even get a draft card?

GD: Woof.

GuntherDog, at this point, toddled down the stairs ... I? I sat there for 5 minutes, or so, and contemplated my navel.

"And the beat goes on."

Truth be told? The past "Life + 1,000 years" have been pretty good, and many -- by no means all -- of my fellow travellers have known how to throw a good party.

I have a birthday coming soon. Maybe GuntherDog and I will go running through the woods peeing on every other tree and then come home for a Last Quarter afternoon nap.